


Simple Man

by Leatherandapplepies



Series: Simple Man [1]
Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Neighbour AU, RPF, SPN Fluff Bingo, SPN Fluff Bingo 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 06:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18068099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leatherandapplepies/pseuds/Leatherandapplepies
Summary: Not long after Y/N, a soon to be author, moved into her new house, she heard a voice singing, coming from the house next door and soon it became her favourite sound and someday she met the appendant man.





	Simple Man

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of my fluff series Simple Man, I hope you enjoy! Please feel free to like and comment, it would make my little heart do a happy dance! Also, this is written for @spnfluffbingo2019, filling the "Neighbour AU" square.

                                                                                      

 

The first time it happened was in the second week in your new house, you had just opened the window to let in some air while you unpacked the last few moving boxes and arranged your beloved books in the self-made bookshelves that were covering a whole wall of your new bedroom.

_“Mama told me when I was young_  
Come sit beside me, my only son  
And listen closely to what I say  
And if you do this it’ll help you some sunny day.” Serene strums of a guitar lingered in the air, followed by a faint, mellow voice that made its way up to you, apparently sourcing from the inconspicuous house next to yours.

You closed your eyes, smiling as you pranced back and forth between the boxes and the shelves, allowing yourself to get lulled in by the stranger’s voice, it made you feel peaceful and yet you could hear some sort of regret in its undertone.  
Whoever that voice belonged to, seemed like he wanted to assure himself of the words he sang.

The second time you heard the stranger’s voice was while you were working downstairs in your kitchen, preparing some lunch.

_“Forget your lust for the rich man’s gold_  
All that you need is in your soul  
And you can do this, oh baby, if you try  
All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied,”the voice aspirated, yet it was thick like honey, dripping with emotion.

You couldn’t help but drift off with your thoughts, wondering what could’ve happened to the unknown man who sounded so vulnerable.  
Cooking up all kinds of different scenarios of what the reason for his melancholy could possibly be, you stared through your window, while your moony gaze was focused on the window opposite to yours, hoping you’d finally catch a glimpse of the face that belonged to the voice you started to like so much. From where you were standing now, you could hear the voice a lot better., It’s owner must’ve been right behind that curtains, hiding him away.  
Soon you were pondering about what kind of man he would be, how he would look like, a whole universe of possibilities forming in your head.  
A fizzle accompanied by a burnt smell yanked you back to reality “SHIT!” you yelped, running over to the stove but your attempt to save the broiling asparagus failed miserably. You hadn’t heard the soft, baritone chuckle that came from the window across.

First rays of spring sunshine leaked through the glass, warming you when the already familiar chords invaded your ears for the third time.  
Only this time there was no voice reminding you of honeyed whiskey, just the by now familiar strumming audible.  
You were sitting on top of the broad countertop, your laptop propped up on your bend knees. Not that you’d been sitting there every day since the asparagus-incident. And you most definitely hadn’t been waiting for him to sing again. Of course not. It was just a nice place to sit at, nothing more, nothing less.  
Besides, you got way more writing done when you were sitting there, therefore it had become your favorite spot in the house, clearly out of creative and job-related reasons.  
Nothing else.  
Even though you missed the syrupy voice, you felt somehow connected to your mysterious, musical neighbour.

_“Oh, take your time, don’t live too fast_  
Troubles will come and they will pass  
You’ll find a woman and you’ll find love  
And don’t forget, son, there is someone up above,”you began to sing the well-known words, absorbed in thought while your fingers flew across the keyboard as you wrote a passionate kissing scene between the two protagonists of your, hopefully, debut novel.

Completely oblivious to the world around you, you hadn’t noticed that the guitar had stopped playing quite a while ago, nor that your stranger had appeared in his window, mimicking your pose, or that he had observed you for several minutes before he decided to make himself known.  
A bolt of terror and shame flashed through you, your fingers clutching around the edges of your laptop as a deep raspy voice chirped “Sounds pretty good.”  
He chortled as you jerked your face to the sudden interruption, your eyes wide like the moon as they met his gaze.  
And with “he“ you meant the most beautiful man you had ever laid eyes on and who evidently was your undisclosed neighbour.  
From what you could see through the two interjacent windows, he had to be in his late thirties or early forties you guessed, concerning the crinkles around the corners of his eyes.  
He was dressed in simple blue jeans and a simple black Henley, except that _nothing_ about him was simple.  
Neither the countless freckles that were dusted across his nose and cheeks or the fact that his nose was actually the most perfect one you ever came across nor those pink, cushiony looking lips of his.

In fact, he looked like he climbed out of one of those overly-romantic teenager novels, it was almost ridiculous.

“Seems like I bothered you quite a bit with that song, hm? I’m really sorry for that,” he stated, bashfully scratching his ginger-stubbled jaw while you remained silent, still trying to process the shock as his emerald-green orbs rested on you, patient, giving you time to recover.

How you knew that his eyes had the colour of a gemstone? Well, your houses stood so close to each other that you were sure that if both of you had stretched out your arms, your fingers would’ve touched.

It took you a few more seconds to compose yourself but eventually you managed to stammer out an “Oh no it’s fine.”

“Name’s Jensen,” he introduced himself, his eyes darting away from you and settled on his feet at the other side of his window frame.

“Y/N,” you responded, easing the tight grip around the device on your lap.  
__

Ever since that day, the two of you started to meet at your windows more regularly and over time it turned into a habit to open up your window as a sign for the other that you were home and up for conversation.  
After another short while, you started to meet up at your spot every evening, talking about this and that, how your days were going, the weather, nothing specific.  
Talking to Jensen was easy, simple and lighthearted, like the first walk through the park after a long and cold winter.

Soon your windows were found close only when one of you wasn’t home or during the night. Going downstairs to open your kitchen window became the first thing in the morning and often times the view into his living room was already clear.  
He was an early riser and usually taking an after-workout shower around the time you got up. And when he then got to the little world between your houses, you’d greet him, sitting the wooden work disk, already typing on your manuscript and handing him over a cup of freshly brewed coffee. It was nice, knowing that someone was always there and that you weren’t alone in this world.

During the morning, he’d watch you write, sometimes he helped you out with some ideas or wording, sometimes he just read the newspaper, glancing over every now and then while you were consumed by your work, your hair in a tousled mess, the tip of your tongue poking out, resting between your lips.  Those were the moments he allowed the green of his eyes to lighten up and the corners of his mouth to rise like the morning sun.  
And sometimes he played the guitar and sang to you to help your inspiration flow.  
Those times were your favourite.

Around noon, after each of you finished all the things that everyday life demanded to get done, he draped his tall figure in the window, his gorgeous bow legs dangling over the edge, while he had a giggle over your cooking attempts that constantly went wrong and in return you’d throw something at him, your cheeks tinted with a shade of pink, causing him to call you ‘Rosy Cheeks’.  
Granted, your wife skills weren’t well developed but since there wasn’t a potential husband in sight, you didn’t need them anyway.

With every passing day you grew more and more comfortable around each other. Maybe a bit too much, but you were too stubborn to acknowledge the prickling that made himself known in your stomach, every time his forest eyes met your y/e/c ones.  
When summer was around the corner, your conversations began to turn deeper, more personal, just as your hidden feelings for each other, making it difficult to close your windows and separate late at night, when the cool summer-night air crept through the blankets that enveloped your shoulders.  
You were each other’s first thought in the morning and the last one before you fell asleep, without even knowing it.

And as autumn had arrived and Jensen still sang Lynyrd Skynyrd's’ _Simple Man’_ as if his life depended on it, you decided to ask him about it.

“Hey Freckles, mind if I ask why always that song? I mean, I like it, but you always sing it with so much nostalgia, like you’d sing it for a special person.”

Jensen didn’t answer right away, but his expression softened as he picked his words.  
“My mom used to sing it to me when I was a kid. She died last year, not long before I moved here,” he said matter-of-factly as he rested his head against the wall behind him.  
He tried to sound collected, but you could literally see the lump in his throat as he swallowed.

“Oh Jay, I’m so sorry! It sounds like she was a great woman,” you evinced, reaching out for him to soothe him. His fingertips meeting yours half way.

“She really was. But I never listened to her words closely enough, I guess. I had never really understood the words, until the day she died, you know? She always lived a simple life, she always chased her dreams, but only for the right intentions, never for things like money or approval, unlike me. Took me quite a while to see that, but as soon as I did, I sold my high-flying brewery to follow her words. Mom was loved and I want to find that too, being loved is way more valuable than having money. I know that now. And I hope that one day I’ll find someone who’ll settle down with me, have a few kids…” he gushed, blinking away some unshed tears.

“I’m sure she would’ve liked you, Rosy Cheeks” Jensen ended, your fingers intertwined by then.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Feedback is much appreciated! :>


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